"It does not matter," said Rufin. The room was raw and aching with
light; the big electrics were pitiless. In the middle of it a man sat
on a chair and raised expectant eyes at his arrival. It was Giaconi,
the painter, the murderer. There was some disorder of his dress which
Rufin noted automatically, but it was not for some minutes that he
perceived its cause--the collar of his coat had been shorn away. The
man sat under all those fascinated eyes impatiently; his tired and
whimsical face was tense and drawn; he was plainly putting a strong
constraint upon himself. The great shoulders, the huge arms, all the
compressed strength of the body, made the effect of some strong
animal fettered and compelled to tameness.
"Rufin?" he said hesitatingly.